


In the Air, on Land, and Sea

by enthroned



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - War, M/M, Marine Corps, Marines, Military, Pre-Slash, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-23
Updated: 2012-05-07
Packaged: 2017-11-02 10:18:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enthroned/pseuds/enthroned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Derek is a marine on his way home.  He meets Stiles, a marine on his way to war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This somewhat strange idea came to me in the airport the other day. I witnessed the very first part of this fic actually take place (albeit not with Derek and Stiles, sadly), and couldn't help but write it out. For fic purposes, I would assume that werewolves are not present in this verse. This is unbeta'd, so all spelling and grammatical errors are my fault and I apologize.
> 
> The title was taken from The Marines' Hymn.
> 
> There are a few references to marine-related things that might need to be explained. These are:  
> MARPAT refers to the digital camouflage pattern on utility uniforms. Desert is lighter than woodland, making it more appropriate for combat in Afghanistan.  
> MCRD means Marine Corps Recruit Depots. Here, recruits go through training, or boot camp. Parris Island, referred to here, is in South Carolina.  
> The Crucible is the final test in marine recruit training. It is a 54-hour field training exercise, which represents the culmination of all the skills and knowledge a Marine should possess.

The jolt of the plane’s wheels greeting the runway with a firm kiss pulled Derek out of a hazy dream. It hadn’t been a particularly pleasant one, something about dust and fire and the distant but so very close roar of a Thunderbolt’s engines, and he wasn’t very disappointed by losing it so suddenly. He had learned that there was no point in mourning dreams and the time it took to even have them years ago. A voice crackled through the aircraft, announcing the local time and weather. Everyone around him now seemed to be moving, reaching for phones and stowed away luggage and eager children who were sneaking toward the cabin door. Derek only had one bag at his feet, with another still in the underside of the plane. He had no phone to turn on and immediately start fiddling with; he would have made a mental note to look for a pay phone somewhere in the airport, if he had a number to dial and someone to talk to on the other line. While the other passengers rushed to stand, knocking their necks and shoulders on the overhead bins and waiting in the aisle, he remained in his seat, wondering idly if he could buy a shirt in the airport. His current top, made complete by the newly added Captain insignia, could truly use a break. He had meant to change on this flight, the last for the day, but had given himself over to sleep instead. 

When the plane was nearly empty, save for a couple with an infant and a few other stranglers, and he finally stood and stretched, Derek doubted very much that he would have been comfortable in denim and cotton, anyway.

The airport was loud and strangely crowded for such a late hour; the pilot had announced that it was nearly ten o’clock at night, leading Derek to falsely believe that there would be far fewer people to deal with on his way to baggage claim. His fingers tightened over the straps of his duffle bag, swinging the bag up over one shoulder. There was the familiar sign for McDonald’s straight ahead, the yellow arches announcing that he was home; he almost snorted to himself, humored by the fact that a fast food chain reminded of home more than any place or face. All thoughts of purchasing a shirt disappeared, replaced by the hunger that now rumbled up in his stomach. Peanuts and a small glass of water were not meant to replace a full meal, it seemed. He hoped, despite the late hour, that the tiny, literal hole in the wall would still be open. There was enough cash left in his wallet to pay for a coffee and fries; he had only pulled the faux leather case from his pocket once during his travels, exchanging a few dollars for copies of the most recent newspapers, his only, slightly useless attempt at bringing himself up to speed with the current stateside events.

“Sir.” Derek barely heard the word, called out by a voice that sounded slightly unsure of itself. He hadn’t been called anything so formal in two days. Instead of responding, his strides continued toward his goal of bitter coffee and slightly cold French fries. “Sir.” It came a second time, louder and more confident now. The volume coupled with the tone caused him to pause for the beat of half a second. Behind him, he heard a set of sneakers squeak to a sudden halt on the floor and a pair of heavier boots dance around the body that was now, no doubt, in their way. Still, the voice was much too far away from a desert to be addressing him. “Captain.” This time, the word was pointed, aimed straight for Derek’s spine, between his shoulder blades. It froze him on the spot, his feet stuck fast to the linoleum floor all of three steps away from his final destination. It was meant solely for him, though he was hardly used to the new title. His stomach would have to wait.

Derek was about to turn around, to greet the voice that had followed him for at least twenty long strides before managing to secure his attention. There wasn’t a need for movement on his part, however, as a shorter, slighter man was suddenly in front of him. The color of his uniform, the distinct MARPAT in desert rather than woodland, matched the one that Derek hadn’t changed out of just yet. As he was assaulted by a smile that could only be described as beaming, he scanned the obviously younger man’s shoulders and chest. U.S. Marines. Private First Class. Stilinski. Derek didn’t know which was more important, the branch or the rank or the name, but he didn’t have enough time to weigh each against one another.

“Where are you headed, sir?” Stilinski’s smile barely faltered even at he spoke, the corners of his mouth pulled up in order to reveal two straight lines of white. Derek hadn’t seen such a genuine smile in what felt like forever; in reality, it had probably only been a few weeks, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to tell the difference between such real, uninhibited elation and the dampened happiness that only came from missing a bullet and not losing another friend over the course of a day. 

He shook that thought from the front of his mind. Derek wasn’t out to shatter this kid’s smile. Still, he hardly knew how to answer the question that had been posed to him. _Home_ would have been a boldfaced lie. He had never stepped foot in the city just beyond the walls of the airport, and he had no intention of making his way back to the only place he may have once fondly called his home; that place was long gone now, taken from him by the same fire that had destroyed his family. “McDonald’s,” he said, nodding over the shorter man’s shoulder to indicate the only place Derek could honestly say he was headed at all. The answer seemed to shake the private first class for just a moment, but his smile actually broadened after a second’s worth of confusion.

“Let me get your order, sir. What are you having? Might I recommend that apple pie? You can get two for a dollar here. I’ve heard they actually make them with potato, but they sure taste good to me.” Stilinski was rambling and Derek had to wonder how the boy’s feet were keeping up with his mouth, propelling him toward the golden arches that had caught the Captain’s attention in the first place. By the time they reached the tiny line that had formed outside of the miniature fast food restaurant, the uniformed boy had moved on to the fries, emphatically claiming, “They’re definitely better than the fries I had in Chicago. You should get a burger to go with them.”

In the end, Derek was too busy staring at the verbose kid to order for himself. Really, it hardly seemed as if his newfound companion would have let him order in the first place. When his number was called, Derek found his hands filled with a coffee, four apple pies, two burgers, and two orders of fries. While his stomach had been roaring in hunger since his last layover, he hardly had an appetite large enough to finish the feast that had cost far too little. He didn’t want to waste the food and there only seemed to be one way to remedy this. With a glance between the two bags in his hands and the still-bright face just in front of him, he easily asked, “Would you care to join me?”

The answer to his question came with a much shorter answer than Derek had expected. “Yes, sir,” was all he was offered as the younger marine pointed out two empty seats at the gate closest to them. It looked like Derek’s checked bag would just have to wait a little while longer. He followed Stilinski, pleased rather than surprised by the rigid alignment of the kid’s spine. Though his posture was clearly that of a trained member of the armed forces, the Captain silently wondered what methods of approved torture the Marine Corps had utilized to get the boy to shut his mouth long enough to hear barked out instructions. Something must have worked, because he had made it out of recruit training with a uniform, a battalion and, Derek guessed from his presence at the airport, a time of deployment that was drawing near.

It was easy enough to split the meal evenly, minus the cup of coffee that Derek had no intention of sharing in the first place. Stilinski looked longingly at one of the apple pies still in Derek’s possession and the Captain offered, “Give me those fries and you can have the pie.” The grin he received in return was wide enough to crack the kid’s face in half. He didn’t want more fries, really, but he passed the apple pie over and shoved a fry into his mouth without another word. 

Food seemed to be enough to shut the Private First Class up. Maybe the drill sergeants had figured out as much and stuffed the recruit’s mouth full of mess hall mush. Poor kid. At least McDonald’s probably tasted better than the food he had been offered at whichever MCRD he had been shipped off to. A thread of conversation sparked through his mind then and, around a bite of hamburger, Derek asked, “Where are you from, Stilinski?” He didn’t want to know where the boy had grown up, but instinct told him that he needn’t elaborate on that.

“Stiles,” came the quick respond. Derek raised an eyebrow, creasing his forehead with the silent inquiry of _and where the hell is that?_ because he’d never heard it mentioned before. The man seated beside him seemed to understand and laughed, a bit of apple pie flying out of his mouth. He didn’t seem to mind the mess he was making, though he did wipe his mouth with the back of his hand and swallow down the dregs of the pie before continuing. “My name, I mean. Call me Stiles. Parris Island.”

Even Derek couldn’t hide the slight twitch of the corners of his mouth at the last two words. He hoped Stilinski – Stiles – hadn’t seen it. “I ate ice cream after The Crucible,” was all he said in response before he hid the slight change in his expression behind another mouthful of fries. He heard a laugh in response at his words, however, and his shoulders relaxed just slightly.

“Do you like ice cream, Captain? I know McDonald’s has some vanilla soft serve –”

“No,” Derek cut the younger marine off without flinching. As he lifted the cup of coffee to his lips, he caught the boy’s expression. He looked positively shocked, perhaps horrified by the fact that someone had just turned down ice cream. “We should finish what we have here, first. You still have half a hamburger to eat.” He felt like a father, motioning at the crumpled wrapper that still held a few bites of flattened meat. Really, he knew better than to deny this kid what could be the last ice cream cone he had for a year. “I’ll buy you an ice cream once you’re done with that.”

He had expected to get a few more moments of silence, of sitting in a chair that was much more comfortable than the hard seat of a humvee. Instead, a balled up wrapper whacked against the center of his chest and bounced down toward his lap. His eyes widened as Stiles jumped up and proclaimed, “All done!” before heading back for the line in front of the McDonald’s. Derek was left grumbling softly, trying to grab all of the trash with just two hands; how the kid had gone through ten packets of ketchup, he would never know. Eventually, he managed to shove the bags and wrappers and ketchup-covered packets into the nearest trash can and went to meet Stiles in line.

After half-expecting Stiles to order four ice cream cones, he was relieved when they were only handed one. Derek paid this time, getting a smile of thanks as the smaller man immediately began to lick ferociously at his latest snack. He reminded the Captain of a cat. If only he could lick the enemy to death, then he might stand a greater shot of finishing this war. The ice cream was gone by the time they crossed back over to their seats, where Derek had left his bag. “Thanks, Captain, that really – ”

“Derek,” he corrected the boy quickly, already exhausted from hearing his new title so many times since arriving at the airport. “My name is Derek. I need to get down to baggage claim before they start selling the last of my things.” For a second, he thought he saw his companion’s shoulders droop just slightly. And, before he could tell himself not to, he asked, “What’s your real name, Stiles?”

He knew the kid would be smart enough not to give him the destination of his battalion, so a name would have to do. He might have to pull a few strings, but he could make a name work.

The response of “It’s Stiles,” earned him an eye roll and then he seemed to catch on. “Genim Stilinski, sir. Derek. It’s Genim.” No wonder he hadn’t been keen to disclose his name at first. Derek wanted to ask who the hell had been cruel enough to name a child that, but mentally kicked himself and held the question in.

“Take care of yourself, Stiles. Stay – don’t do that,” Derek interrupted himself this time, reaching up to grab the boy’s wrist as it traveled upward. He would not be saluted in the middle of an airport. Instead, he twisted his hand and gripped the kid’s in his own, not yet shaking but also not letting go. “Be good, never eat Charms, and try not to let your mouth get ahead of you. Stay frosty, Genim.” Though he wasn’t yet smirking, he could feel the expression in his tone as he spoke the name. It reminded him of denim, of the jeans in the pack that he still hadn’t put on, of something that brought him back to reality and out of the utility uniform that he wouldn’t need to wear for too many months.

Derek only waited for Stiles’ lips to turn upward just slightly before he let go of the hand in his grasp, replaced it with his bag, and turned away. He didn’t hear any type of response out of the other marine, only the sound of his own boots thudding against the floor and the tune of the Marines’ Hymn at the back of his throat, a low hum that he knew could connect a stateside Captain and a desert-bound Private First Class who couldn’t keep his mouth shut.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Derek is grateful that there is only one Genim Stilinski.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided to give this chapter thing a go. There's only one more chapter that I have planned out for this, the contents of which should be rather obvious by the end of this chapter. Some references (Juggs magazine, J. Lo's presumed death) were taken from the HBO miniseries Generation Kill; if you haven't seen it, you should remedy this. I also have no idea if Stiles reads comic books, but he seems the type that would and so he does here. This is unbeta'd, as always, so I apologize for any glaring spelling and grammar mistakes. Enough of me, I hope you enjoy!

The number of enlisted Marines who shared Stiles’ surname was surprisingly high. Of course, there were only five, the Private First Class included, but it still added to the number of hoops Derek had to jump through. Fortunately, there was a solitary Genim Stilinski; it was fortunate both because it meant that his search was over and because only one young man in the United States Marine Corps was afflicted with such a name. The man on the other end of the conversation had determined that his official rank was more than enough, and skipped over the speech that Derek himself, acting under orders and hating himself for it, had previously given to his company: “Packages and letters ought to be reserved for immediate family and close friends only. Do you want to take up coveted aircraft space with another box of adult magazines and candy bars, boys?” The honest answer to that question would have been yes, Captain, and we’d also appreciate more Slim Jims and baby wipes, too. For as much as Derek thought the request was ridiculous and bordering on out of line, he had no plans of stealing too much aircraft space to begin with, much less with the latest issue of Juggs. He considered it both disrespectful and offensive to send such material into a warzone, where any number of unfortunate and unspeakable things could happen to the glossy, beloved pages. He repeated the unit’s address back to the man on the line, called him sir as a sign of thanks and deference, and only felt his shoulders relax when he turned his phone off. 

The first box he sent out was small. It contained a plethora of tiny treasures, from Chap Stick to breath mints. From his brief encounter with the verbose Private First Class, he remembered that the boy was paler than the moon; he added three bottles of sunscreen to the box with a mental note to replenish this supply in about a month’s time. He thought about finding some sort of valuable reading material to go along with the necessities, but doubted very much that Stiles would appreciate the brooding tales of Poe and the philosophical musings of Camus; besides that, he had no idea how much leisure time the kid would even be afforded in his first trip around Afghanistan, courtesy of the United States Marine Corps. From Derek’s own experience, it probably would not be much at all. He placed his handwritten letter on top of all the civilian loot. Letters were, after all, one of the most prized pieces of mail a Marine could receive, perhaps second only to a rather risqué photograph of a very special person back home. Derek may not have been the kid’s very special person, but he could keep him up to date on the important stateside events: what was the President up to, how safe were the seas of the internet for media pirates these days, which Kardashian sister was engaged or pregnant or dead, that sort of thing. He could keep the kid connected to the world that he would return to in almost a year’s time, the world that was currently still going on without him.

Derek himself hadn’t had such a luxury. With no family to speak of, he left it up to his friends to keep him informed. Most of them wrote awkward letters, unsure of what to say to him now that he was no longer an immediate part of their social, and therefore professional, circle; he had made pipedream plans of becoming an architect, like the rest of them, to rebuild his corpse of a home. He found it rather futile to continue with that career path when he was more accustomed to calling in airstrikes that could wipe an entire village clear off the map than even constructing a miniature of a blueprint. No, his former friends did not want to hear about those particularities of his job, and so he’d stopped writing before the end of his first tour. His new friends, his brothers, read some of their more appropriate letters out loud to him after that; this was the only way in which he knew for sure that J. Lo was, in fact, still alive and not dead, as some of his fellow Marines had claimed. 

He wrote two more letters without receiving one in return. He did not worry about the address he had been given; the offices of the Marine Corps were meticulous at worst, and they would not tell him to write to an incorrect location. It was useless to concern himself with the more shocking and dismaying option, though he knew it was more likely than simply having the wrong address. If the boy, and he really was just a boy from the smile that still reached his eyes, had already fallen, then perhaps someone else would benefit from the sunscreen and the rather interesting, albeit brainless, information about the current state of all things pop culture. The last letter he tucked carefully into a rather worn copy of _The Great Gatsby_. He had read it in high school and assumed that the kid had the reading level of at least a ninth grader.

There hadn’t been a reason to be concerned. When Derek returned home from mailing the book and the letter, he found two envelopes from Stiles. Maybe the very corners of his lips curled into the start of a smile, but he hid it against the brim of his coffee cup as he sat down to read about life on the other side.

Stiles had cramped and slanted handwriting, and Derek found himself revisiting certain words in order to make sure he had just read ‘sardines’ and not ‘Sarah Palin.’ It didn’t astound him that the teenager could actually stomach eating sardines for breakfast back home; he wrote about the items and activities he missed and put at least three dozen food items on the list. Derek was glad, at least, that he didn’t have to read about Palin. Snickers, clean socks, and, somehow unsurprisingly, comic books made the list too. Sardines would not travel well, but the other three certainly could. Stiles rambled even in writing, jumped from one topic to the next, and his tiny handwriting made the letters even more dense than they had at first appeared. He wrote about his father for an entire side of a page; he was a sheriff and Stiles seemed comforted by the fact that they could now bond over being allowed to carry weapons while on the job. It was easy enough to sense that the kid missed the man, but Derek couldn’t very well kidnap a sheriff, punch some holes in a box, and ship him off to Afghanistan. No, a Snickers bar would have to do for now.

Derek sent four of the candy bars (with a note attached that instructed Stiles to share with his fellow Marines and make some friends) and a random issue of a Batman comic. What, he really couldn’t be expected to be a comic book connoisseur while also balancing life somewhere between a Captain and a civilian. He had, at least, asked the nearest ten year old in the comic book section of the bookstore what he ought to purchase for someone who liked McDonald’s and couldn’t shut up. After a brief lesson on the worlds of Marvel and DC, Derek picked up the nearest thing that looked even somewhat familiar and went with that. The latest Batman film had been decent; he figured the comic couldn’t be too terrible.

In return, he got a rather crude drawing of a Val Kilmer-esque Batsuit, complete with exaggerated nipples, and a two-page play-by-play of how Captain American would beat Batman into the ground, if ever afforded the opportunity. Derek figured he had chosen that particular superhero on purpose; a Captain in the United States Marine Corps really had no place to argue against the superiority of Captain America. Well played, Private First Class.

By Stiles’ fourth letter, Derek knew almost too much about the kid’s life. He had a miniature autobiography on his best friend, Scott, who mostly seemed to spend too much time with his girlfriend and not enough time giving a damn about his friend who was still begging for his attention an entire ocean away. There was Jackson, who needed a dose of his own medicine and a swift kick to the chest; Derek wrote to Stiles that he ought to show the high school jock his M16 and be done with it. Stiles did not write too much about this Lydia girl, but she seemed to be both cunning and manipulative. Derek wanted to like her for it, and under any other circumstances he would have; but she seemed to be a distraction, and distractions were never good to have when your job was to stay alert and shoot faster than the people shooting at you.

By his sixth letter, Stiles replaced paragraphs about his life back home with snippets about what was actually going on in the life he was actually living now. Derek should have encouraged this, but instead he wrote back with questions about Stiles’ dad (what was the most notorious crime in his town that he could remember, did he ever let Stiles wear his badge when he was a kid) and his ridiculous fascination with comic books (who would win in a battles of wits between Spiderman and Superman, even if Derek already knew the answer he would receive). Stiles took the bait.

Stiles didn’t get leave for Christmas. Derek thought about cutting down one of the trees just outside his front door, but didn’t. He didn’t have any ornaments or tinsel, anyway. He sent Stiles a half-humorous, mostly filthy card and a deck of cards. The kid must have timed his own package perfectly, because it arrived the day before Christmas Eve. He found a handmade card (complete with a terrible drawing of his newfound moniker – Captain America – on the front) and three tubes of MRE-grade jalapeño cheese spread. Apparently Stiles had been taking notes; jalapeño cheese was the one thing Derek admitted to missing in his own letters.

Derek didn’t receive any letters for almost a month and a half. This time, he felt a tight ball of panic in his stomach start to form after the first three weeks. He knew he had the right address, after all. To take his mind off of it, he sent more sunscreen and socks.

When Stiles’ name appeared in his mailbox again, Derek didn’t bother to hide his smile. The expression barely faltered when he tore into the envelope and read:

_Captain America,_

_I’m stateside in six weeks. I’ll see you then. Wear your costume._

_Peace,  
Stiles_

If Derek laughed, it was merely because only Stiles would sign a letter ‘peace’ from the middle of a warzone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles comes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter for this rather weird story that decided to make a home out of my brain. It's longer than I anticipated, and the first half is mostly character building (of the Derek variety). It's unbeta'd, as is always the case, so my apologies for any mistakes you might find.

Derek did not own a Captain America costume. He also had no intentions of adding one to his wardrobe, Stiles’ request be damned. The fact that the nearest Walmart and Target stores were completely sold out of adult-sized Captain America costumes had absolutely nothing to do with his decision on this. And so he left his home, which now had a shingled roof to replace the charred hole that once invited the sun and rain and snow in as welcome guests, with a suitcase filled with a pair of jeans and enough shirts and pairs of underwear to last him just a few days. 

Prior to leaving, he used a computer at the library to look up driving directions to Parris Island. To make sure the Internet was not attempting to dupe him, he printed the results off of three websites. The crisp white sheets of paper, which cost him five cents each to mark up with black ink, were the only company Derek had on the road. The radio was exiled from the journey as soon as it began to croon at him with a twang, whining at him about a lost love and more ridiculous things that most normal civilians might find desperately heartbreaking. Derek, of course, found them to be infuriating and nearly broke the knob to the stereo in order to shut them all up. To fill the silence, he took to reading the directions out loud, over and over until he was sure he could reach the military base with his eyes closed.

The highways were lined with rest areas, advertisements for tiny motels with cable television, and signs that pleaded with drivers to pull over if they were growing weary. Derek passed them all in a blur, thankful when most other cars on the road seemed to float to the rundown motels like moths to a flame. He much preferred to drive at night, though it still surprised him that the entire world was not cast in a green glow when the sun went down.

Derek pulled off the freeway only twice. Both times, he found himself in a McDonald’s parking lot, shoveling apple-maybe-potato pies into his mouth at record speed. He saved one from his second stop, though he was sure it would be too stale for any living creature to consume by the time he reached his destination. 

The drive took less than twenty-four hours, stops included. His entire body ached by the end of it and, when he parked the burning-hot car in the lot of a rather picturesque hotel, he swore he could hear every bone in his right foot go off like display of fireworks on the Fourth of fucking July. Pop. Pop. Pop. To the Captain, it sounded more like M16 rounds, squeezed off at the faintest outline of a building in the dead of night and still managing to get a hit. Derek smiled at the fact that he was now in a place that might actually understand that analogy. Back home (back where he slept and ate and generally lived, even if it wasn’t much of a home at all), rifles were used for hunting deer, not enemies; sometimes, a local would ask for his opinion on the Kimber 84M, or the Marlin 336, or the Browning BAR and Derek would be tempted to shake everyone within reach, though he never did.

The hotel, with its bright coat of white paint and shudders that reminded him of lilacs, was as near to the base as it could get without, he assumed, violating some type of federal regulations. Years earlier, when he was still a grunt and hadn’t yet earned a battalion but was nearly there, he remembered Family Day and the parades of beaming fathers and crying mothers that filled the campus. Some of them, at least a few, must have stayed in this very hotel. Derek’s parents hadn’t, but he didn’t think about that as he opened the front door and was greeted by the pleasant, albeit still annoying, jingle of a tiny bell that was attached to the knob on the other side. An elderly woman greeted him and immediately addressed him as ‘sir.’ Derek wondered if that was out of habit, considering her establishment’s proximity to a military base, or if there was something about the set of his shoulders or the furrow of his brow that tipped strangers off to his profession. He didn’t ask. Instead, he requested a room for two nights and flashed her the start of a smile when he asked for a king-sized bed.

When he slept, Derek only took up a corner of the bed. He woke before the sun reached the horizon, giving him more than enough time to piss, shower, and make himself look presentable enough for the marines at Parris Island. In the lobby, the bell jangled again, this time announcing his departure. Before he made it out the door, the woman at the desk told him that he looked very nice. She smiled when she called him sir this time, as if she knew some secret about him that even Derek hadn’t figured out yet. He didn’t worry about that. Instead, he wondered how high her standards could possibly be if she thought jeans and a dark shirt were enough to make a man look decent, much less very nice.

The trip to the base didn’t require a car, but Derek took his anyway. At the entrance, he handed over his license, registration, and proof of insurance before the officer on duty could even ask for them. This earned him a second glance and this time, when he was addressed as sir, Derek knew it wasn’t just out of habit. He was informed, without needing to ask, that the unit – Stiles’ unit – would be arriving at oh-eight-hundred. 

He was only fifteen minutes early.

Derek found the crowd of anxious greeters without trying very hard. There were women and men, adults and children and babies, and many, many shirts emblazoned with the American flag and names of, he assumed or maybe he hoped, marines who were returning home today. There weren’t any shirts with Stiles’ name on them. A pair of women was already crying softly to each other, their shoulders shaking as they tilted their heads together. A little girl, her hair tied up in ribbons of red and white and blue, raced around his legs and gazed up at him, a doe-eyed stare of complete and utter innocence, before she tottered away and was scooped up by a woman whose hair was done in much the same fashion. Derek was glad his hair was not long enough to tie ribbons in, lest she attempt to offer. 

The wait wasn’t long and, suddenly, he was caught in the middle of dropped camouflage duffels and hugs and tears and a sea of other emotions that threatened to drown him if he didn’t start kicking. The little girl and her ribbons were hoisted into the air by a man in a utility uniform. Derek almost smiled. The expression was cut off, however, by the call of “Sir” coming from behind him. This time, it didn’t take the voice three tries to get his attention. He turned and was greeted by a grin he apparently hadn’t forgotten over the course of so many months, a grin that hadn’t lost any of its spark or sincerity either. The grin came with a pair of dark circles under the kid's eyes, but those would fade in time.

Derek became a part of the dropped duffel bags and overwhelming emotions then, as Stiles placed his bag on the ground in favor of bringing the larger man in for a hug. It was the first try at physical contact between them, minus a stray brush of their fingers when exchanging napkins and wrapped food items in the airport. The kid was warm, and Derek swore he could feel the loud thud of his heartbeat echoing in his own ribcage. When he came upon this stupid and very much silent realization, Stiles laughed loudly, the noise sending vibrations through the older man’s body. He wondered, momentarily, if he should ask the boy about telepathy. After many letters and heated, one-sided debates (all on Stiles’ end, Derek never bothered to get involved), he knew that Marvel had at least one famous telepath, though he didn’t think the nickname Professor X truly suited the kid.

“You’re not wearing your costume.” Stiles hardly sounded annoyed by this, but Derek still had a fleeting desire to defend himself, to blame Walmart and Target for running out of Captain America garb before he got there. “That’s alright,” the shorter man started to reassure him before he could even get a word out, “I don’t think you could pull off the spandex.”

At that, Derek knew, he had to defend himself. He eased back from the embrace quickly (though, he noted only to himself, he kept his hands on the kid’s elbows) and raised an eyebrow. “I couldn’t pull off the spandex? Stiles, please.” He scoffed then, rolling his eyes as if that would completely overturn the other’s judgment. “But,” Derek continued on, dropping one hand away from the marine in front of him to reach into his own pocket. “If you really think that, I could probably find someone else to give your gift to.”

“My gift?”

A gift, the very mention of which seemed to turn Stiles into a child on Christmas morning, staring wide-eyed at the carefully wrapped boxes under the tree. Instead of a tree and presents, however, he was staring at Derek in that way. 

“Uh.” Derek found that his mouth was dry. He forgot about speaking then. He pressed two tiny squares of paper at Stiles’ chest. Again, there was that obnoxious, loud, fluttering heartbeat. It took the kid a second, but he seemed to eventually get the hint and pried the items from Derek’s fingers.

Derek watched as Stiles studied the printed letters on each of the squares. He waited for some sign of disappointment or acceptance or – he hardly hoped – happiness. The latter came in an instant, Stiles’ mouth falling open into an oval shape as he clutched the papers, the ticket stubs, to his chest.

“No way,” was the initial verbal reaction, to which Derek only nodded. “No way,” it came again, this time louder. Before it could leave Stiles’ mouth a third time, the Captain reached a hand out and pressed his index finger over the kid’s mouth. Stiles looked ready to attempt the exclamation again, even with his newly acquired muzzle, but only grinned instead.

Derek liked the grin more, he discovered.

“Way,” was the only humored response he could get out before he was nearly crushed by a second hug.

“Are these tickets for tonight? Have you seen the trailers? I didn’t get a chance – you know, shitty Internet service over there and all. I bet the special effects are amazing. I hope Ruffalo can handle the role of the Hulk. You kind of have arms like Thor. Can we stop and get candy on the way? I always eat Reese’s Pieces when I go to see a movie.” Stiles was more than just rambling. He was going down a long tunnel lined with words, and Derek did not see a light anywhere that might indicate an end. He was picking up speed too, until he was slurring his vowels and consonants together and the other man was just left listening to the sound of his voice without gaining any meaning from the noises he was making with it.

“If you don’t shut up, I’m giving the tickets away.” Just like that, Stiles’ voice stilled and, for a moment, Derek wondered if the boy had stopped breathing entirely. The kid looked absolutely ready to burst, with puffed out cheeks and a fidgeting gaze. Derek hadn’t known that eyes could be restless at all, but he was beginning to learn that Stiles was not the type to hold still for anything. Though he knew he might regret it later, he didn’t want the Private First Class to suffocate himself on his first day back, and so he asked, “What is it, Stiles?”

The smaller man let out what might have been described as a large sigh of relief. “Just one more thing, Cap’n.” He paused, as if he needed permission from Derek. It came in the form of a raised eyebrow. “Is this a date?”

Derek didn’t dignify that with a response, but he did pay for Stiles’ Reese’s Pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks! In case you didn't guess, Derek got Stiles tickets to see The Avengers. And yes, it was a date. Thank you for reading all of this mess! Hopefully I'll be cranking out some more Teen Wolf material now that the trailer for season 2 has been released!


End file.
